


The Education of Mr. Stilinksi

by zoemathemata



Series: The Education of Mr. Stilinksi [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, M/M, Student Stiles, Teacher Derek, Teacher-Student Relationship, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:50:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2649263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoemathemata/pseuds/zoemathemata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale is going to hell courtesy of Stiles Stilinkski and his oral fixation</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Education of Mr. Stilinksi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mezzo_cammin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mezzo_cammin/gifts).



> A congrats fic for mezzo_cammin - and as I said to her in my email, in fandom, we don't really say 'congrats' we say "I wrote you this porn" and I think that's beautiful. Also thank you to her for doing a quick beta!

Derek Hale was going to hell. He must have pissed off some deity either in this life or a previous one and that deity was ensuring that this time around, Derek was going to burn. 

And it was all courtesy of Stiles Stilinski and his oral fixation. 

Derek was used to high school students. He’d been teaching at Beacon Hills High for three years and it wasn’t that long ago he’d been a student himself, in this very building. So he was used to the loud jokes, the fixation with sex, the rowdy behavior. But Stiles Stilinski and his pens, and his highlighters and his lacrosse stick and his goddamn hoodie string were killing Derek. 

Stilinski and his Bambi wide eyes, framed with ridiculous eyelashes. And that mouth. He was forever sticking something in it. He’d sit there, listening in class, the cap of his highlighter pursed between his bow lips. The piece de resistance would be when he was done. Stiles would tip his head back, exposing his long neck and the skin hugging his Adam's apple and he’d blow the cap out of his lips, straight into the air and then catch it deftly with his free hand, smirking. 

Goddamn him. 

He was smart, too. Derek had graded the midterm test last night and Stilinski’s essay on Macbeth had been good. Damn good. Derek didn’t have a red mark to put on it. He knew Stiles had ADD but it was obvious when he liked a topic because he could focus on it and not need any of the extra time his IPP afforded him. Derek hadn’t handed the essays back yet, but when he did, he should say something to Stiles. Something like ‘good work’ or ‘I really enjoyed your contrast and comparison on Macbeth and King Lear.’ Something like that. Something that was not, ‘get on your pretty little knees and suck my dick.’

Jesus, he was screwed. 

***

Stilinski may be smart but he didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut sometimes, which is why Derek had to break up a fight between Stiles and Jackson Whittemore. Near as Derek could figure, Whittemore said something disparaging about Stiles, which wasn’t all that unusual. Jackson Whittemore was the kind of kid who liked to verbally bully other kids. Stiles usually gave as good as he got, but then Whittemore had said something about Stiles’ dad or his job as Sheriff and Stiles had hauled off and decked Whittemore and motherfuck, that kid had a right hook. Derek and Finstock separated them and both boys ended up with detention, although truth be told, Derek wished he didn’t have to punish Stiles. Whittemore was a dick. But Stiles had punched him and Derek had seen it and he couldn’t ignore that. 

Derek’s not sure who detention punishes more, students or teachers.

He tells them both to write an essay on something, anything, he doesn’t care what. They can use their smart phones to look up information but there better be a thousand word essay (minimum) at the end of detention time. 

Jackson huffs and grouses, says it’s impossible and his father is going to hear about this. Derek just gives him a cold glare and the boy eventually gets to work. 

Stiles… Stiles just smirks a little and starts hastily writing. Derek feels a little bit of a sweat break out on the back of his neck. 

At the end of two hours, Jackson bolts up like shackles have just been released from his legs, pushes some paper at Derek and then saunters out with a sneer. Stiles is still writing furiously, turning the page in the little booklet over and continuing on the back, checking his smart phone a few times. 

“Mr. Stilinski, detention is up. As long as you have at least a thousand words, I’ll take it.”

Stiles holds one hand up while continuing to scribble and Derek sighs. Watching Stiles’ long, expressive fingers write for the better part of two hours has been the worst kind of torture he can imagine. Not only that, but Stiles is still chewing on the string of his hoodie, working his mouth around it in a way that should be illegal. 

Derek’s never been a praying man, but he might just start. 

Stiles finally writes something with a flourish and then scribbles something else at the bottom of the page. He looks up at Derek with those Bambi eyes from underneath his ridiculous eyelashes and he smiles a little and Derek feels his gut clench at the look on Stiles face. 

Stiles stands, gathers his paper and slinks forward to the desk. Derek didn’t even know he could move like that. Stiles is normally all frenetic motions and spastic movements, but the way he approaches Derek’s desk is almost predatory. 

He looks at Derek like he knows. Like he knows what Derek’s been thinking about Stiles’ bow-shaped pink lips and long fingers. He places his essay on the desk and smiles a little, his lips curving slightly at the corners. 

“Have a good night, Mr. Hale.”

Derek manages to nod. He looks down at Jackson’s paper and rolls his eyes. Jackson’s got some bullshit written in the first paragraph about how the law should not be applied uniformly to all citizens and goddamn his father, who is one of the state’s best criminal defense lawyers, getting rich scum off the hook for an exorbitant fee. Derek’s not sure if he should give Jackson a good grade just to shut him up and never have to hear from him again or if he should fail the little prick just on principle. He shoves it aside and starts reading Stiles’ essay. 

It’s a history of male circumcision and the first two paragraphs alone are nearly pornographic and have Derek breaking out in a sweat at his desk. 

Jesus, that kid’s going to kill him. 

***

Another lacrosse practice, another fight between Stilinski and Whittemore, and Derek’s not sure how two kids who can’t stand each other keep ending up interacting. Shouldn’t the natural and mutual hatred between them end up repelling them like magnets or something? Derek doesn’t know (or care) who started it (though he always suspects Whittemore), but he’s the one who’s ending it and God, he swore he would never turn into his father but here he is, sounding more and more like him every day. 

Derek can hardly look at Stiles since the circumcision essay and his ode to dicks, both cut and uncut, and Jesus, what the hell kind of grade was Derek supposed to give that? It was outrageously well written but also extraordinarily inappropriate. Derek may have also jacked off twice because of it - once right after reading it and then again later on that night (and he was not that young anymore). So it’s with some relief that Finstock breaks up the fight first and while Derek usually hates having to have him as an assistant coach of the lacrosse team (excuse you, Co-Coach, Finstock will yell) he’s pretty grateful for it because it means he didn’t have to actually lay hands on Stiles to break up a fight. 

Because all he can think about is laying hands on Stiles. 

Not an hour later and just as he was praising Finstock before, he’s cursing the man now. His punishment for Whittemore and Stilinski was they had to do extra laps around the field. The rest of the team has long since showered and gone home, including Finstock, but Derek is stuck, waiting out the two of them, even as they doggedly toss sneers at one another. 

Derek stands like a sentry in the locker room while both boys head to the shower, hoping to God, the Devil, or anyone who will listen that they will NOT get into a fight in the shower, while Stiles is naked and wet, his lithe, slender body slippery with hot water. 

Jesus, take the wheel. 

Whittemore comes out after two minutes, bitches about the water pressure, gets dressed and heads home. Derek can hear the screech of the Porsche's tires on the pavement. He’s not sure if he’s grateful or resentful that he won’t have to break up a naked shower fight between Jackson and Stiles. 

He’s so going to hell. 

He goes to the coaching office, closes the door and sits down behind the old, battered desk, resting his head in his hands. He’s got to get a grip on himself. Ha. The thought alone makes his dick twitch. He thinks about Stiles, just through the doorway in the showers and Derek forces himself to take a deep, steadying breath. 

The knock on the door startles him and he jumps up a bit. Stiles pokes his head in - hair wet, fucking eyelashes dark and damp, framing his large eyes. 

“Uh, Mr. Hale?”

“Yes, Stiles, what is it?” Derek says, fiddling with some papers on the desk, tidying them, not really reading them. 

Stiles comes in and he’s got loose sweatpants on that hang low, barely holding on to his sharp hipbones. His shirt is a little wet, clinging to him at the jut of his shoulders, the curve of his bicep, the dip of his low back. 

Derek looks down and fiddles again with the papers, tapping their edge against the desk table, straightening their already perfectly aligned edge. 

“I was, uh, wondering something?”

“What?”

Stiles pauses for a moment and then seems to nod to himself a little before closing the door to the office behind him. Derek feels a drop of sweat run down his back and pool a bit at the base of his spine. He’s the adult here, he’s the authority figure. There’s no way that he should feel like he’s just been trapped in the room with a seventeen-year-old boy. 

A beautiful seventeen-year-old boy with skin that looks creamy soft, barely hinting at any kind of stubble on the chin and across the jaw bone, peppered with dark moles that Derek would love to take his tongue to and…

Stiles comes around the side of the desk, why? Derek has no idea. It forces him to turn in his chair to face Stiles, who stands before him, loose-limbed and somewhat gangly. Stiles licks his lips a bit and Derek’s eyes trace the movement almost involuntarily. He forces himself to look up and into Stiles eyes. 

“I was wondering what you thought of my paper?”

“Pardon?” Derek asks, swallowing hard. 

Stiles pink, bow-shaped lips curve a bit. “My paper. The one I wrote for detention.”

Jesus, the ode to dicks, is the paper he means and Derek wants to ask Stiles what he was thinking writing a paper like that. Derek has an absurdly dirty fantasy where he stands up and tells Stiles he’s a goddamn cocktease and Stiles replies that it’s not teasing if you intend to give up everything and god, he could bend Stiles over this desk and just press up against his firm, round ass, slip his dick into the crease between the two cheeks and rut against Stiles, coming on him. 

“Your opening sentence ended in a dangling participle,” is what Derek manages. 

Stiles smiles even more. “Dangling participle,” he repeats and fuck, how on earth can he make that sound sinful? 

“Yes.”

Stiles’ tongue darts out of his mouth and he licks at his top lip and Derek’s dick twitches in his pants. Stiles eyes flick down and he sees it and fuck, Derek is so, so screwed and not at all in the way he wants to be.

The next ten seconds happen simultaneously so fast and so slow that Derek’s not sure if his brain turned off, or was going too fast. 

Stiles drops his bag to the floor with a thud and then follows it by dropping to his knees in front of Derek and all Derek can do is watch as Stiles leans forward and runs his hand up Derek’s leg, to his crotch, over the growing bulge in Derek’s pants and then pops the button on Derek’s pants. Stiles has one had sliding inside Derek’s boxers while the other is pulling down the zipper of Derek’s pants and goddammit, Derek should say something, should put a stop to this right now. 

Derek slides down in the seat, spreading his knees wider. Stiles shuffles closer and leans in, breathing over Derek’s crotch as he pulls the waistband of Derek’s underwear down below his dick. 

“God you have a nice dick, I fucking knew it would be. Look at you, you’re perfect everywhere.” Stiles breath is hot on Derek’s skin and Derek drops his head back against the chair, his eyes half mast, keeping them focused on Stiles. Stiles’ gaze darts up quickly and then back down, like he’s afraid to make eye contact. 

“I’ve wanted to do this since I first saw you in class,” Stiles says, and his tongue darts out and licks at Derek’s dick. Derek inhales sharply and Stiles does it again, and then again. 

“Fuck, I go home and think about it all the time, think about sucking you off. And you just stand there in class glaring at us and it’s so hot.” Stiles sucks the tip into his mouth, tonguing at the slit, and Derek groans. 

And then Stiles’ mouth engulfs Derek and it’s hot and wet and sloppy. Spit trails down his dick and Stiles works at it with one hand, his other hand pressed against his own erection, palming it, and fuck, that’s hot. Derek’s not sure if this is the best blow job he’s ever gotten or it’s just because it’s Stiles and he doesn't care. Stiles is making mewling little needy sounds as he sucks and licks, like he can’t get enough and Derek cradles Stiles jaw in one of his hands. He runs a finger along Stiles’ cheek, pressing slightly to feel himself inside Stiles mouth and Stiles looks up at him with those Bambi eyes and those damn eyelashes. Derek groans again, biting at his own lower lip a bit. 

“Feels so good,” he murmurs. 

Stiles makes a hurt little sound and palms at himself faster, spit running out of his mouth and down Derek’s dick. Suddenly, Stiles pulls off, Derek’s cock falling out of his mouth. Stiles lips are gaping open, shiny and pink and his back bows and he’s coming, right in front of Derek, just from sucking him off a little and it’s gorgeous, it’s fucking beautiful, and Derek can only sit there and watch it and feel like he’s just seen something stunning. Something he hopes to god no one else but him gets to see. 

Stiles falls forward, head resting on Derek’s thigh as he pants at bit, whispering, “Sorry, sorry.” With the hand still cradling Stiles’ skull, Derek tips his head back and he can’t help but stroke himself off, only needing a couple of pulls while he’s looking at Stiles’ relaxed, slightly sleepy orgasm face. Derek comes over his own fist, a few spurts landing on Stiles pants and shirt. 

Stiles makes a sad little sound and looks up. “I wanted you to come in my mouth.”

Derek says the most dangerous words he knows, while a teenage boy is almost in his naked lap, both of them coming down from an orgasm. 

“Next time.”


End file.
